


Sedge and Bee

by Greekhoop



Category: Vampire Chronicles - Anne Rice
Genre: Ancient Egypt, Flashback, Historical, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-02
Updated: 2011-12-02
Packaged: 2017-10-26 19:01:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/286801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Greekhoop/pseuds/Greekhoop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Khayman went to war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sedge and Bee

Years later, when tell-alls and confessions became the fashion, Khayman would keep his secrets. They seemed to him small, and rather conventional; he was embarrassed that his long life had not played out with an excess of drama or deep pathos. Lestat had called it a hook, and he had said that you needed it whether you were writing pop music or cult novels.

“Take Dashiell Hammett. No one crafts hooks like him.”

Louis had sniffed and said disdainfully, “I think you’ve forgotten Joseph Conrad.”

And then the conversation had taken a turn that Khayman could not follow.

He didn’t mind that he rarely understood what people were talking about. For as long as he could remember, life had been a series of not-unpleasant bewilderments. Khayman wasn’t superstitious - his confusions did not yield automatically to thoughts of ghosts or gods or magic – but he didn’t mind not understanding everything.

They all thought he was a bit feeble-minded, that his long periods of hibernation had taken their toll on his faculties. He was a curiosity. He was tolerated, even liked, but he did not command respect. The questions they asked him were of the most facile sort, as if he were tour guide rather than oracle. But he was pleased by Gabrielle’s scholarly inquisitiveness, amused by Santino’s prying and scheming and sniffing after secrets, affectionately exasperated by Lestat’s need to know everything.

When Khayman was bored of them, he only needed to say that his memory was hazy. They all reacted the same way: embarrassed, awkward, like people who speak too soon, too casually, of the recently deceased.

No one ever asked him about his life, his time alive that was to say. Above ground, beneath the sun, eating and sleeping and going to war as a man. It took Khayman a long time to realize that they thought they already knew all there was, and perhaps that was not untrue. For what could he add that had not already been said countless times, about countless men? Said better, and with more sophistication, than he knew how to?

Better to leave the official record as it was, straightforward and uncomplicated. He didn’t want anyone to think he was trying to change their minds about what had happened. He could see that there hadn’t been much of a choice in the matter. After Akasha had been killed, there had been some sullenness from Pandora, a tantrum or two from Lestat. Louis had inevitably taken a pacifist stance.

Did we have to kill her? he had asked. What right did we have?

For the most part, his questions had been ignored. He did not pursue them long. In truth, even Louis was glad for the peace and quiet.

And while the others swarmed ravenously over the city of Miami, and massed in Armand’s drawing rooms to argue about books and theater and human nature, Khayman slipped away so quietly and unobtrusively his absence went unnoticed. He headed north, silently, without fuss or formality or any great outpouring of emotion, to tend to the body that everyone seemed to have forgotten.

***

It was dark when the king’s messenger came to fetch him. Khayman had left his wick burning, and when he heard footsteps approaching his tent, he lifted the little door in the side of his clay lantern so a wedge of yellow light slanted out. He had not undressed for bed, having suspected that there might be some need of him that night.

The boy who had been sent for him was very young – younger even than Khayman had been when he had first been taken into the service of the king. He had a sly face, the half-lidded eyes of a crocodile. Never too young for court intrigues, Khayman reflected mildly as he took his lantern down from the beam that propped up his tent. Never too young for jealousy either, if the look the sullen look the boy was giving him was any indication.

Khayman put out the light. He knew he wouldn’t be needing it anymore. After the flame had been extinguished, the darkness seemed absolute and deep. The boy lifted the flap of the tent to let in a little starlight, and Khayman followed him out into the night.

The sand was warm beneath his bare feet, and the river sounds were louder, more immediate, out here in the open desert. The mosquitoes massed around him; Khayman felt their loathsome little pinpricks on his arms and chest. The air was still warm from the heat of the day, but the temperature was dropping off fast. It would be a cold night.

All around him, the dung fires the soldiers had built were rapidly becoming embers. The men were all asleep by now, rolled up in their cloaks. Khayman was glad they did not see him pass by on the way to the king’s tent. He did not like them to know the intimacies of his business. Though, he supposed, they always found out in the end.

The king’s tent was modest but sturdy, a reminder that it had not been so many generations since the people of Thinis - the Upper Kingdom - had roamed the desert as nomads. 

Just outside the tent flap, the boy stepped aside and let Khayman precede him. He glanced up at his face as he went by, bold and unapologetic, and Khayman got a good look at him in the pale wash of moonlight. He was not a handsome boy, but he had a graceful and enigmatic way about him. He might grow up to be trouble.

Khayman was as surprised by how shrewd and calculating he had become of late. He had been a good-natured, guileless youth, but now, at seventeen, he was a man and he could no longer afford childish indulgences. It was the nature of the times. They were at war, and the further into the lower desert the king led them, the more renegade tribes they assimilated and territory they claimed, the more serious and suspicious Khayman became.

As for the king, he seemed to think only in terms of victories and glory and spoils of war. He no longer had any mind for strategy or patience for politics. Those tasks were unbefitting the God incarnate, and so they fell on Khayman’s shoulders.

With a gracious nod to the young messenger, a practiced courtier smile, Khayman lifted the tent flap and went inside.

Enkil was waiting for him there.

He was seated on the stack of rush mats that had been stacked into a bed. His legs were folded beneath his body; his back was unbending. He had been watching the tent flap with some interest, as if he had known the exact moment that Khayman would enter. He wore a grimy linen tunic, and the hammered copper diadem of the head of the royal house. A shawl of translucent gauze had been draped hastily around his shoulders, folded close around one arm. Enkil clutched it at his throat with his free hand, as if he were cold.

Khayman knew by the smell of blood in the air just what had happened.

Enkil’s kohl-rimmed eyes flicked in the direction of the young messenger.

“Leave,” he said. His voice was soft, little more than a whisper. He was in more pain than he let on. Khayman wanted to go to him, but he kept back. Now, more than ever, the king feared assassins. He was uncomfortable being touched without warning.

The boy dipped his head and departed. The tent flap fell back into place. Only after it had stopped swaying did Enkil let his gaze come back to Khayman’s face. His expression softened into a smile, weary and humorless.

“My friend. Thank you for coming.”

Khayman tried to look stern, but he knew that it wasn’t particularly convincing. “What have you done to yourself now?”

Enkil let the shawl around his shoulders fall. His left arm had been wrapped in lint

“The scouts reported an encampment of refugees from Nadaq. I went with them to clean out the nest. They did not submit easily.”

Khayman was by the king’s side now, unwinding the gauze bandage around his arm. “You could have told me earlier.”

“You were in the rear of the caravan. I did not want to trouble you.”

“You’re troubling me now,” Khayman replied pointedly. The king’s eyes swayed to his face, and he knew at once that it had been the wrong thing to say. He looked down. “What I mean is, I am always happy to fight by your side.”

“I know that your intentions are good when you say such things, but I also know that you do not mean them.”

Khayman didn’t look up, but his shoulders sagged beneath the words. His hands kept moving, though, picking the edges of the lint bandage out of the wound in Enkil’s arm. The king did not even flinch.

“I know that this life does not suit you,” he went on. “It gives me no pleasure to see you like this. And yet, we must go further. I must see it through to the end…”

“This isn’t bad,” Khayman murmured. The whole of his attention was focused on the wound. It was a long vertical gash with the jagged edges of a cut made by a stone axe head. “There’s just a lot of blood.”

“Yes, I know,” the king said.

Khayman folded the lint bandage over in his hand until he found a clean segment. He dipped it in the clay jar of water near the bed and began to clean the cut. “You ought to have sent for a surgeon. It would have been better…”

“You’ll do fine,” Enkil said. He flinched when Khayman touched him, but did not make a sound. “They don’t need to know everything about me. I am the God made flesh…”

“There’s never been a God who was invulnerable.”

“There’s also never been one who fell to mortals.” The king caught his breath sharply. “A little more gently, Khayman.”

“My apologies.” He knew he had been vindictive, though, and Khayman forced himself to proceed with a softer touch. He moved on to the bowls of medicine that had already been prepared, and he smoothed a layer of grease over the wound to keep out the putrefaction. He followed it with a layer of honey to draw the edges of the gash together.

He began to wind a fresh length of gauze around Enkil’s arm. A sleek, spoiled cat came out of the shadows, nosed around Khayman’s ankles, and then disappeared once more. Khayman risked a glance at the king’s face, but Enkil was not watching him. His eyes were far away.

“Something’s on your mind,” Khayman said.

Enkil made no reply. Sighing, Khayman turned away and went to wash the blood from his hands. He was still bent over the basin when he heard Enkil rise from the bed. The king’s hand came down on the small of his back. His palm was callused and graceless. He slid it upward, following the curve of Khayman’s spine.

For as long as he could, Khayman acted like he didn’t feel it. He scrubbed at the crust of dried blood that had collected under his fingernails. Enkil’s hand slipped under his hair, caressing the back of his neck.

Khayman shuddered. He straightened up, moving, it seemed, too slowly, as if through a dream. When he turned, Enkil’s hand dragged lazily around the curve of his throat, and Khayman snatched it up and pulled it to his lips.

A moment later, he was crushed against Enkil’s body, the king’s mouth against his in a bruising kiss. The arm looped around the small of his back was thinner than Khayman remembered, but solid. Since they had begun their campaign downriver, Enkil had grown thin and rangy. Khayman could feel the cords of muscle shifting under his skin.

Khayman suspected that he had changed too, but he could not imagine himself looking as Enkil did now: his cheeks hollow and his eyes sunk deep in their sockets, his skin burned almost black from the desert sun. For as long as Khayman could remember, the king had been careful about his appearance, with a care that verged on vanity. But the truth was, he looked more like a god now than he ever had before.

Shivering, Khayman touched Enkil’s arm just below the bandages. “Be careful.”

“The pain is all but gone.”

He tightened his grip on Khayman’s waist and drew him over to the bed. They crumpled onto the reed mats, and Khayman reached out to secure the linen mosquito net around them. For what seemed a long time, they lay there without speaking, listening to the insects buzz around the net.

Enkil’s injured arm was stretched out at an awkward angle. His opposite hand roamed over Khayman’s bare chest. When he reached the linen kilt knotted around his waist, he yanked it open, and Khayman caught a strangled breath. He was used to this, though, these impulsive unpredictable caresses. It was not his place to question the king’s will.

The king swung a leg over Khayman’s body, straddling his hips. Khayman arched up against him, the wound he was trying so hard not to disturb already practically forgotten. Enkil, too, seemed determined to ignore any pain or discomfort. Khayman wondered, briefly, if he really had moved beyond such things, ascended to a higher plane.

Then his lips pressed to Khayman’s throat, and all reason was washed away.

Enkil stroked his chest, his thumbnail flicking over Khayman’s nipples, teasing them hard. With his knees, he pressed Khayman’s thigh apart. Khayman submitted easily, arching his back as Enkil settled his weight on him. His tongue moved dryly in his mouth, searching for something to say. The words would not come, though, and Enkil didn’t seem to want to hear them anyway. He hooked his good arm under Khayman’s knee, pressing it back to his chest so Khayman’s hips angled upward.  
With a single swift and decisive thrust, he entered him.

Khayman caught his breath. There was a moment’s pain, but it faded quickly. The king was above him, his head bent so his hair fell in two straight rivers over his shoulders. When he moved, it dragged over Khayman’s chest, tickling his throat, covering his face, filling his mouth so that his senses were overcome with the smell of incense, as if Enkil’s hair alone still retained the luxurious trappings of the temple, long after the rest of his body had been reclaimed by the hard life of the desert.

Even with one hand all but useless, the king had no trouble manipulating Khayman’s body as he saw fit. He twisted his hips, angling them back to meet each thrust. And Khayman moved with him, his head tipped back against the pillows, his chest heaving as he gulped the cool night air. 

He felt Enkil moving, not just into him, but through him as well, driving him on without mercy or hope of respite. The king came before him, but Khayman barely felt the hot rush of his seed filling him. Enkil’s pace did not slow, did not even falter. Khayman felt himself suspended between two absolutes, like the shadow of a hawk in flight, and when his own release came a moment later, it was a tremendous relief. As if he had been allowed to fall at last.

He was still catching his breath when the king stretched out on the bed beside him. In the low light, Khayman could see sweat glittering on his dark face. With a sigh, Khayman straightened up and retrieved his own clothes from beside the bed. He wiped both of them clean, and then let the linen cloth fall again. It made a whispering sound as it slithered to the floor, and Khayman did not see where it landed.

He did not know if Enkil wanted him to stay, but when he shifted closer, the king allowed it. Khayman touched his arm to make sure the bandages were holding, and then he laid down again, resting his head on Enkil’s shoulder.

“How long can this go on?” he said softly.

“Why should it end?” the king replied. “It will go on as long as I will it.”

“I mean these campaigns.”

Here, Enkil was silent a moment. “Those, too, will go on as long as I have need of them. We will take the Lower Kingdom, and then we will see where our forces stand. The hawk-headed god is said to be a powerful ally of men…”

Khayman sighed. He had heard all of this before. Enkil had a vision of a mighty empire that encompassed all the tribes of the river, and he was not about to let things like prudence or mercy stand in the way of it. For the king longed for nothing so much as immortality, and he would achieve it even if he had to die before his time to do so. Enkil might have been granted the gift of eternal life, but if he had to live it in anonymity he would have rejected it outright. He believed that true immortality could only be accomplished through great deeds, the kind that passed down through the generations until the truth and the legend became inseparable from each other.

“I apologize if I am boring you,” the king said.

Khayman shook his head. “No. No, it’s not that. I’m sorry. I’m just weary tonight. My mind is elsewhere.”

Enkil shifted above him. It seemed that now he was looking down at Khayman’s bent head. “If you wish it, I will send you home. It can be done is such a way that you will suffer no disgrace.”

“That’s not what I want,” Khayman said. He surprised himself by how quickly he said it, how much he meant it. “I have nothing back there. My father pledged me to the royal court. It hasn’t been that long, but to tell you the truth, I hardly remember my family. Besides, who would take care of you if I wasn’t here? No, my home is at your side.”

“For what it’s worth,” the king said. “I am glad for that.”

His fingers sifted through Khayman’s hair, pulling the dozens of thin braids into neat rows. “Stay tonight. I want you with me.”

“Oh,” Khayman said. “You haven’t told me that in a long time.”

“I know. I’ll try to do right by you from now on.”

***

That had been the last night they had spent together.

Khayman had known at the time that the king meant what he said, but shortly after that the Lower Kingdom had entered into negotiations. Before the season was through, they had reached a peaceful agreement, and Enkil had acquired a new bride to seal the treaty.

Akasha was clever, but superstitious. To Khayman, that seemed a volatile combination. She seemed to accept the story of the God made flesh without hesitation or question, and when Khayman tried to suggest to her that it had been nothing but a politically advantageous conspiracy, she turned on him violently.

She was suspicious of his relationship with Enkil, and so Khayman held himself at arm’s length. There will be time, the king had assured him. He had kept saying it, right up until the end, when there had been no time left for them at all.

So Khayman was here now, running light across the top of the snow through the Arctic night. He left almost no sign of his passing; his footprints were like shadows, only visible when the moon fell on them just right. He followed the directions he had lovingly extracted from Marius’ mind, until, a little before midnight on the second night, he found the ruins of his old citadel.

The building had been gutted by fire, and the ruined beams reached like skeletal fingers into the night sky. Khayman paused to listen. He could hear a herd of elk moving through the trees about half a mile to the north, a pair of coyotes slinking along the frozen river bed to the east. They were the only living things nearby.

Khayman went on, entering the destroyed citadel. He found his way down to the basement, and to the edge of the great rift that had opened in the floor. Calmly he stepped off the edge, and floated downward like a feather. Deep in the earth, even his extraordinary night vision didn’t reveal much. Khayman fumbled in the dark until he found the ragged edge of a fallen tapestry, and with a touch from his hand he set it alight.

By the glow from the fire, he picked his way through the rubble. When he lifted a splinted slab of marble and revealed the king’s body, he did not flinch or draw away. Enkil’s eyes were open, and they had not, even now, been veiled by the milky cataracts of death. His skin was translucent, like flawed glass, but in the firelight it looked rosy as living flesh. The illusion would have been perfect, except that Khayman could see the map of purplish veins beneath the skin, and that they did not stir with the pulse of his heart.

Khayman leaned closer all the same, and pressed his ear to Enkil’s chest. It was like laying his cheek against marble. He listened for a long time, but he heard no heartbeat. He used his fingernail to open the vein on his wrist and let a few drops of blood fall on the king’s unmoving lips. They rolled off like quicksilver.

Khayman was not disappointed. Indeed, it was what he had expected. Even if, for a moment, he had dared to hope…

He dismissed that thought quickly. He had lived too long to wonder about the past now. If he started down that long backwards road, he knew he might never reemerge.

Swiftly, calmly, his mind almost totally blanked of thought, Khayman finished digging the corpse out from under the rubble. He carried it above ground, and cleared a place in a sheltered part of the citadel. There, he began to prepare for the burial.

***

Khayman did not know how much time had passed when he returned to Night Island. He had slept in the snowy woods, beneath the ice. Once? Twice? He could not say. He only knew that he had the weary, over-worked feeling that came from keeping awake through long Arctic nights.

As he descended again into Equatorial longitudes, the twilight became shorter, the pre-dawn blush reduced to almost nothing. Down here, night was night and day was day, and there was little overlap between the two.

Khayman fed in the city, and so it was well past midnight by the time he returned to Armand’s estate. He could hear the roar of televisions and stereos blaring from the many rooms when he was still a mile out: louder than the crashing surf, than the cry of the sea birds. Louder than his misgivings over leaving without an explanation and returning just as suddenly.

He touched down on the beach and walked up to the compound and let himself in. Louis and Lestat were on the sofa in the big front room, watching something on the television. Khayman thought that they looked as if they wanted some privacy, and so he tried to slip by them unseen.

“So, you’re back…” Lestat said without turning. His senses were sharper now than even Khayman had realized.

“I’m back.”

Louis turned around, peering over the back of the sofa at him. “Come have a seat with us, Khayman.”

“I don’t know…”

“Come on,” said Lestat. “I’ve seen this movie before. There’s a good part coming up.”

“All right,” Khayman relented.

When he sat down, he felt a ridge of metal against his ribs. He reached into his coat and drew out a battered copper diadem. It had turned green from age, and the delicate designs that had once been carved into the band had filled in with black grime. Khayman stared at it for a moment, surprised. He recalled, vaguely, picking it up off the floor of Marius’ citadel, but he no longer remembered when, or why, or even whether he had been surprised that it was there.

“What’s that?” Louis asked gently.

“Just something I found,” Khayman said quietly. “I think it’s nice.”

“If you want jewelry, I can show you a place in Miami,” Lestat said. “They did Ivana Trump’s engagement ring.”

“I like this, though,” Khayman said. He turned the diadem once in his hands, looking at each tarnished and dented surface. “I like this just fine.” 

~The End


End file.
